


Coda.

by Quarkitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Genital Mutilation, M/M, Thramsay - Freeform, face fucking, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarkitty/pseuds/Quarkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon has fled from Winterfell and saved Jeyne Poole, however he is marked for a slow death to starve and freeze. Accepting his fate, he never expects to run into a wounded Ramsay Bolton. Realizing he has the upperhand, Theon has a choice he must make in regards to his abuser. Gross trash incoming, choo choo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AeonDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/gifts).



> I'm not very happy with this, but two beers and an hour later I think it's time to just post it. <3 As always, dedicated to my boyfriend. Some people get chocolates and flowers. My bf gets disgusting smut. What a fucking pair we are.

Theon’s chest was full of thorns. He breathed in winter, the cold was so remarkable and he could not remember a day as white or as empty. Catelyn Stark was right, he thought, his foot catching on the snow. We truly are the children are summer, we could never have known.

Stannis’ flaming stag flew above him, snagged on a tree. He peeled the banner down and wrapped it across his shoulders like a cloak. He snorted to himself, a turncloak and a heretic protecting himself with the fiery deer. Stannis would have his head if he ever saw. He gripped it closer, pulling the cloth across his face, grateful to feel something warm against his skin.  He trudged on, coming across yet another fallen bannerman. So many of them lately, he suspected the fighting was nearly over but he could not tell which side had won. He recounted the amount of fallen Bolton bannerman versus the Baratheon armies, it seemed nearly equal. Yet, he took a little more pleasure in seeing the fallen banners of the Dreadfort he admitted. Going through the corpse’s belongings, Theon fitted himself with better fitting shoes and bit into a piece of dried meat. Everything tasted like honeyed ham after eating Lord Bolton’s rats. He chewed, his eyes closed, letting the stale meat fill his palate. No spices but salt. In another life he would have called this food tasteless and slipped it to a dog. Theon swallowed.

 His escape was a narrow one that he could scarce believed he pulled off. He and the girl, Jeyne, he thought back to her slender arms holding him for comfort and warmth. Her huge brown eyes never stopped watering. They hid in the forests, listening for the Baratheon armies and moving the opposite direction. It had been rough, but often he found himself smiling just to be free of the Bastard of Bolton. On their third night away, Theon saw the Umber banners and turned Jeyne in under the guise of Arya Stark. The Stark supporters took her in, swaddled her in furs and rode her off to safety. As Ned Stark’s ward, he assured them she was Arya, the same Arya Underfoot he ate with and lived with for her whole life. Expectantly, the Umbers had no sympathy for Theon and left him to die in the fray. He shut his eyes and remembered the biting words of one man, “I hope Stannis finds ye, and I hope he opts for burnin’.”

 Theon did not know where he was heading anymore, if anywhere except slow death. He eased his stroll, staring up at the white winter sky. In truth, he would be content to die here, alone and frozen. He would die free. Away from the Starks, away from the Boltons, away from—

“Reek.”

He twitched, his eye suddenly sore with phantom fists. That voice, deep and raspy. Surely, no, surely he would be hiding behind a wall, too craven to face the Baratheon armies? Surely he would be screaming for his Lord father, eating the winter storage, bemoaning about his lost wife? Theon turned around, his throat turned to spun silk, wet and slippery. He dropped the Baratheon cloak quickly, sliding it off of his shoulders.

The Bastard of Bolton had never been a handsome man, that much was true. His rubbery lips felt like eels on Theon’s face, his pockmarked face was rough and chalky, his long black hair was oily and always looked a shade wet. Yet, Theon had never seen Ramsay with a bloody face, his teeth barred in the sunlight, slick with dark red. Theon’s body turned to steel. Ramsay’s body was slumped against a tree, he hoisted himself up further, getting a good look at his prisoner.

“Reek.” It sounded like stones in his chest when he spoke, a rattle betrayed his health. Ramsay gestured to a stab wound in his chest, breathing heavily. “My Reek,” he sucked up a mouth full of blood in a slurp, swallowing his own stickiness. “Carry me.”

The command was so sudden that Theon lifted a foot to obey, his neck immediately lowering. He hesitated, mouth gaping. Ramsay Bolton was at a disadvantage, in the turning of seasons somehow the impossible had happened.

“Carry me!” Ramsay screamed, spit flying from his pink frothy mouth. “Carry me, you worm! Carry me back to safety so I can get to a Maester.” He pushed his hefty body up with his elbows, straightening his torso. “Gods be good to bring you to me, Reek would never betray me.”

Theon listened through the stillness in the air. Jeyne had been gone for how many days? The Umber men had spat on Theon, their horses turning in the snow, hooves beating away with Jeyne riding sidesaddle. The last he saw of them was her brown hair, strands escaping from a fur hood. She was safe and he was condemned to die in the harsh elements, his story was over, wasn’t it? He saved Jeyne Poole, the rest was just borrowed time. Glancing down at Ramsay, he allowed himself to weigh his options briefly, fighting the shrieking hawk in his ribcage.

“…M’lord I….Safety is far away, I cannot carry you there.” He admitted, the truth bare and simple. He was not wrong. Even if it was a friend or ally, there would be turning back into the thick of the war. For all he knew Stannis was in Winterfell with the red woman, sitting where Ned Stark used to sit, crown upon his balding head. Theon made a fist, his few fingernails cutting into his palm. “We are both dead.”

Ramsay pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. His wound was black and raw, it had been sitting for several hours. Theon wondered why whoever stabbed him had not simply finished the job, until he realized the same was true of the Umbers. Whoever stabbed Ramsay wanted him to suffer, starve, and die slowly out in the snow where ravens could peck at his face until only bones remained. The blood loss was not incapacitating yet, he was only out of breath and in severe pain. Ramsay’s thick legs shook as he stepped towards Theon, his pupils pinholes. Instantly, Theon recognized the look. A mixture of madness and lust, it was the stare that let him know whatever peace and calm Ramsay had was long gone. He was running on pure animalistic pleasure and steam.

Back up into a fallen tree log, Theon fell, his legs still bony driftwood. Ramsay placed a large foot on Theon’s chest and pushed down, just heavy enough to make his breathing taut.

“Did you think I wouldn’t look for you? Do you think I would just let you go without a fight? That I would sit and cry like a broken hearted maiden?” Ramsay screamed, drool falling out of his mouth. He pressed down on Theon’s chest harder, feeling the curve of his bones under his boots. “Did you really think I would wave goodbye to you, Reek?”

Theon shook his head, knowing the questions were never rhetorical. He tried to take in a deep breath, both the cold wind and Ramsay preventing anything more than a baby bird sized gasp.

“N-no, no.” He wheezed out.

“Say it again!” Ramsay kicked Theon hard in the ribs. “What did you expect me to do?”

Theon screamed and clutched at his sides, keeling into the snow. He pressed his face into the white, starving for any sense that was not hot pain. Ramsay kicked again on the opposite side and repeated the question. Staring up through his messy hair, wet with sweat, Theon found his tongue. “I expected you….I wanted you to let me go.”

“Why would I do that Reek?” Ramsay leaned in closer, his mouth turning up into a sadistic smile.

“Because you loathe me so.” Theon met the bastard’s eyes and squinted. The advantage was decidedly still his. How long could Ramsay live? Not long enough to make him an object again, of that he was certain. Unless the Bastard’s Boys or Roose Bolton himself rode out on their horses to proclaim Stannis’ army had fallen, there was not a way in all the Seven Hells he could become Reek again. He would die Theon. “You raped me hollow, you used me, you hurt me. You hate me and any normal human would not miss a vile thing like me.”

Ramsay kicked again, lighter this time to Theon’s surprise. “Your tongue is salty, sweet Reek. Has the open sky changed you that much? What happened to ‘I love you m’lord, of course m’lord, I am your creature m’lord’?” It sounded oddly like Ramsay was pleading, like a lover’s quarrel. His voice was higher, flighty. Frightened. He grabbed the fallen Baratheon banner and stuffed it into Theon’s mouth. “Choke on the false king, sweetling, he won’t save you here.”

He kneeled over Theon and pressed a hand to Theon’s chest, nails dragging across his torso. Lifting up Theon’s shirt, he gazed at the skinny, starving body. His chest was concave now, bones reaching outwards towards the day. Theon tilted his head back, exhausted with his lot. He knew this game, he closed his eyes and bit his lip, screamed and cried until it was over. On the worst days he would lose a finger or toe. On the best, he would just have to pretend he was elsewhere and stuff the memories down further and further, deep into his marrow. Ramsay’s hand found Theon’s breeches and pulled them down, touching the spot where his cock used to be. His breathing was disgusting, wet and full of death.

“You gross animal,” Ramsay breathed into Theon’s ear. “We are going to die here, and I am going to fuck you one last time.” He pressed a finger into the healing skin between his thighs, ripping it open. Theon screamed, sure that someone nearby would hear. Birds flew from their trees, crying out in fear. He bit down on the banner in his mouth, teeth prepared to shatter. Anyone come, he thought, come and kill us both. The wound split open and a wetness slid across Ramsay’s fingers, the blood and pus festering out. The skin was thin and raw, just barely healed to a scar, now aching and pulsating. Ramsy pressed in further, pushing into the disfigured organ, feeling it like something sensual. He slapped Theon with a gloved hand. Theon howled, the pain was unimaginable. He had thought nothing would ever hurt so badly again. His body thrashing against Ramsay, the Bastard held him down firmly as he could, his own bleeding wound keeping him from full strength. In the past few days Theon had somehow made peace with his body. He was missing things, and often a phantom cry would tingle through his skin, reminding him that something was supposed to be there. Fingers, toes, a cock. Yet at night when he and Jeyne would hold each other for warmth, she would call him a brave man and the word had filled him. That he could be a man, that it was not even a question for her. He was her man. Yet the pain of Ramsay reopening it, he felt the word slip from his grasp. Ramsay moved his mouth down to Theon’s scar and pressed a prodding tongue against the wound. He bit it, teeth scraping against the surface. “If only you had a cock, Reek.” He laughed at his own joke and spat out onto the hole, mixing his saliva in with his tongue. It was wretched and rancid, Theon derived no pleasure from the nerves screaming and the blood quickening. He expected he would die from the wound growing infected. Unless by some miracle he found safety in the next few days, and not a Bolton or Baratheon bannerman, he would die slowly with a festering wound between his legs.

Theon grit his teeth and closed his eyes tightly. Ramsay kissed his face, fat lips against his tears. “Like old times, Reek. I’ve made you so beautiful.” He slid a finger into Theon’s ass, rocking it gently against him. “I could kill you right here, rip you apart with just my fist. You’d split in half and whoever found your corpse would laugh. Fucked to death, they’d say. Fucked to death in the ass with no cock.” He chuckled to himself lightly and stopped suddenly, his face grave. “Reek. Listen to me. I see white that isn’t snow. On the corner of my sight, I see white that isn’t snow. Reek.” Theon grunted in response, holding back a sob. The last days of his life would be getting raped in the snow, the thought. She was safe, he repeated over and over again, picturing Jeyne’s hair blowing in the wind. She was safe, Jeyne was safe. “Does that mean I’m dying?” He pulled the banner out of Theon’s mouth, tossing it into the snow. He pulled his finger out of Theon and inspected it, slick with blood. He pushed his hips against Theon and grabbed him by the face, pulling him towards him.

So many questions. Theon nodded, feeling two fingers enter him now. “Y-yes,” he grunted, trying not to give Ramsay the satisfaction of seeing him uncomfortable. He made eye contact and forced a smile. “Does it hurt?”

Ramsay punched Theon in the jaw, the pop of bone against flesh echoed. “Does it hurt he asks. Did that hurt? You have your answer.” Ramsay shook his fist and grabbed Theon’s brittle hair. “I have such little blood left to fill my cock Reek. When I found you were gone, I raped several virgins but none felt as good as you. Why is that, how is such a disgusting creature a better lay than a sweet screaming maiden?”

He kissed Theon on the mouth, forcing a sloppy tongue in. Theon realized with a jolt that Ramsay was crying. The monster was crying, his voice shaky and miserable. “You fucking whore!” He screamed, another fist hitting Theon in the jaw. “You fucking whore, I’ll kill you! I’ll slit your throat, I’ll slit your throat!” Ramsay grabbed Theon by the shoulders and slammed his head into the fallen tree behind him. He sobbed, his body shaking. He pulled down his breeches and grabbed his halfmast cock, pumping. “My vision is swirling,” he moaned. “I’ll die mid fuck, I don’t care.” Ramsay grabbed Theon by his lower jaw and ran a finger over his teeth. By now, Theon knew it was best to just lay limp, to move his body with the way Ramsay pushed and pulled. Any thrashing or struggling would be met with a hard fist or a lost body part. He eased his head into the grip and opened his mouth for Ramsay’s cock. It was nearly all hard. Ramsay grabbed Theon by his ears and pushed. He cursed under his breath. “This is how I want to die. Bloody on a battlefield with my cock in someone’s mouth. If you died first, I’d have fucked your raw skull. In the eyesocket, ah,” his breath hitched, “in the eyesocket and the mouth.” He tightened his grip around Theon’s face and pushed into him. Theon gagged. Between having Ramsay’s cock and the banner in his mouth, his throat was dry and tired. It had been days without fresh water, he had been eating snow by the fistfuls and it somehow never felt quite the same. He tried to think of something else, anything else. Warm sun, baked bread. Anything. He never sucked or moved his tongue, Ramsay did not want it reciprocated, he just wanted a vessel to fuck. His cock was thick. It touched the back of Theon’s throat, he gripped his thumbs and tried not to make any noise, not to gag or retch. Ramsay’s grunts were louder than usually, more labored. His thrusting was slower, he face fucked with longer pushes of his hips, his body tired and bloody. Rubbing his stab wound, Ramsay’s eyes flickered. Theon watched the best he could as Ramsay dipped a finger into his wound, reaching around cautiously. His cock grew harder in Theon’s mouth. Touching his own blood turned him on. His face broke out into a grin, his finger plunging deeper in the wound. Biting down, Ramsay let a moan of pain out and his eyes turned white. He pulled his finger from the wound, up to his mouth, sucking on the black blood with lewd flicks of his tongue.

With a guttural noise, Ramsay came in Theon’s mouth. He fell besides him, clutching his chest, a pained expression on his face worse than just post-orgasm afterglow. Theon struggled to pull his own clothes on, nervously glancing at Ramsay, expecting him to say something, to move, to scream at him. He wiped his face, swallowing Ramsay’s cum without question. (Once he had spat. He was forced to crawl through broken glass on his knees after that. It was the last time he let any of Ramsay’s fluids leave his body.) His body always felt so light after Ramsay raped him, like he could just fade away into parchment. He rubbed his sore jaw, wondering how many times he had taken Ramsay in his mouth. Three dozen? More? Nearly every night Ramsay would open him up and use him in some way.

“Did you ever love me Reek? Truly, did you ever?” Ramsay was dying, the rattle was thicker now. A gust of wind blew a thin layer of snow across his body, a dusting like burned bones. He touched his stab wound, gently this time, looking down on it in disbelief.

Theon grappled with the question. He touched his bloody lip and felt the swelling on his face.

“I loved you more than you will ever know.” He whispered, just audible for the two of them to hear.

Ramsay closed his eyes and smiled. “I’m dying Reek, you don’t have to lie to me anymore. Some Baratheon cunt got me in the belly and left me to die. I am spent, it’s over.”

“…I loved you.” Theon touched his head, his headache immense. What did he mean by love anymore, he did not know himself. Did he love the man who tore out of his teeth, who disfigured him, who kept him a captive until he forgot his own name? He did, he did, he clawed at his own face, horrified by his own admission. “I did!” Theon screamed. “I did love you!” In the way he loved his captors, the Starks? In the way he loved the women he bedded? In the way he loved knowing his own death was inevitably soon and this was going to all be over?

Ramsay looked up solemnly, not a bit of pleasure in the words he longed to hear for so long. “Then you’ll kill me.” A beat of silence lingered between them, the length of a gallop’s stride.

“Please.” Ramsay added. No question, a statement.

Theon dragged his own body over to Ramsay and looked his body over. A dagger was tied to his waist. He pulled it from its sheath and stared at the mirror in the metal. Ramsay could have easily killed him with it, but there was no joy in that. A quick death was never in the plan. Not even a death by stabbing or blood loss. The only death Ramsay wanted for Theon was one that lasted a lifetime, killing day by day, finger by finger.

“Why did you come after me?” Theon asked, sliding a thumb across the blade to test its sharpness. It was honed to kill, thin as spring grass. Ramsay did not answer, breathing heavier and faster, his face turning grey. The adrenaline and desire had sped up his blood loss.

“Reek.” Ramsay croaked out, his belly black with coagulating blood. “Do it fast.”

Theon held the blade above Ramsay’s body, taking sick pleasure for a moment in his rapist looking so vulnerable. “You thought I was a monster, a freak.” He spat out. “And perhaps I am. I’m disfigured and ruined. I’m a monster in all definitions of the word.” His sweat poured onto the blade handle. Theon tightened his grip, watching Ramsay’s expressionless face. He lowered the blade to Ramsay’s cheek and let it cut a delicate line into his flesh. Barring his teeth like a rabid dog, Ramsay glared at his creature, blood pooling In his mouth. “I am a monster, and I am here to kill you.”

Theon unflinchingly slit Ramsay Bolton’s throat. Blood pirouetted out, beautiful in its abstract shapes, flooding down Ramsay’s white throat. In death he sounded like a wounded deer, kicking hooves against the closing darkness. Ramsay choked, the death rattle leaving his teeth. He died with his eyes open, the cold grey steel forever watching. Theon fell on top of Ramsay’s lifeless body and held on until the warmth left him, touching his hands. They felt so heavy in his own, dead pieces of meat. Theon wrapped a thumb around Ramsay’s wrists and brought it up to his face, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Ramsay’s mouth was still half open, spittle on his lower lip. Instinctively Theon flinched at the sight of his face, waiting to be hurt. The hurt never came.

Mercy, mercy, Theon kissed Ramsay’s face. The sound of hoofbeats echoed in the distance.


End file.
